


Five Miles To Go

by wneleh



Series: The Summer of 1999 (In which I try to get the guys past the events of TSbyBS happy, sane, and healthy) [8]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Smarm, alternate version, fanfic fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 14:30:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wneleh/pseuds/wneleh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate, more smarmy direction for my "Summer of 1999" series.  IOW, this is fanfic fanfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Miles To Go

**Author's Note:**

> In my "Summer of 1999" series, I have Blair nursing a ripped-up left hand as he deals with the affect of goa'uld possession on Jim. He gets it patched up and the saga continues tripping along. But - what if Jim hadn't been able to get him to a clinic in a timely manner?
> 
> So I wrote an alternate version of events seen in "No More Lies" and "Inquisition," inspired by a challenge on SentinelAngst.

_From[Inquisition](http://www.murphnet.org/fanfic/inquisition.html):_

It didn't surprise Jim that, now that relief was on the horizon, Blair's reserves were flagging. Sighing, he said, "If the truck breaks down out here, and I can't get it fixed, you will die. You are in no shape for a 20-mile hike to the main road. Do you understand that?" 

Blair didn't answer, but seemed to sink even more into himself, his breath hitching a little. Jim felt like a complete ass, but couldn't think of a way of taking the statement back: it was the truth. He reached out and shook Blair's shoulder gently. "Sorry, Chief," he said. 

"Just drive," said Blair. 




Like he was really going to die from a little scratch. Sheesh. But like some caricature of a 50's sitcom dad, it seemed Jim couldn't help but rub Blair's stupidity in his face. In act three, or whatever, Blair would finally take his cue and tell him he'd learned his lesson.

Well, maybe he had. 'Doctor first, roadtrip into the wilderness second.' Sounded like a house rule to him. 

He was getting cold, and the truck's bounces were starting to make him sea-sick. If Jim really cared, he'd turn on the heat, and do a better job of avoiding at least the larger caverns in their path. Huh, the heat WAS on. Well, then Jim would turn UP the heat. Blair really didn't need a cold - no, this was definitely the flu - on top of everything else. 

What if he was carrying some new form of the flu? Indonesian Banana Flu. Maybe he was patient zero in the U.S. They wouldn't pick it up at some little clinic in Moose Jaw or Buffalo Jaw or wherever they were heading back to. The feds would come by in a few days and find everyone in town dead. Wouldn't that be ironic. His hand would be fine but he'd be dead, drowned in his own flem or however it was that flu pandemics killed people. His own death, he could handle, but it would claim Jim too, and they'd only just gotten him free from that THING... 

He wiped his right sleeve across his eyes. 

"Only about five miles to go," said Jim. "How're you holding up?" 

"I'm fine," Blair told the inside of his shirt collar. 

Crrrraaaaackkkk.... 

'But, obviously, the truck isn't,' flashed through Blair's mind as his torso was snapped forward, then held fast by the belt. Jim's response was a more succinct, "Damn it!" 

Jim was out of the truck before Blair could arrange the words to ask what had happened. A moment later, Jim was banging on his door. "Open up, Sandburg. The axel's snapped and the fuel tank must've gotten punctured when we hit bottom. We're leaking gasoline." 

Oh. That's why he smelled gas. Blair summoned the energy to unlock the door, then found himself being hauled out by Jim. He'd've gotten out in a second! 

Jim must have let go; Blair was sitting in the dirt now, while Jim hurriedly started taking everything out of the bed of the pickup and dumping it a few yards behind him. What about his backpack? It had been in the front seat with him... oh, Jim had dropped it next to him. Damn, but Jim could be hard to build up a head of anger toward sometimes. 

"Five miles?" he called to Jim. 

"Or thereabouts," Jim confirmed, coming to squat next to him. "Everything's out, so if she lights up we've got our stuff at least." 

"I - I don't think I can walk five miles right now." 

"Sure you could," said Jim. "But it will be dark in an hour. I was figuring we'd set up camp and head toward the main road at first light. There's not a lot of traffic, but people out here'll stop and help." 

Was Jim actually fishing for comments on his plan? Well, Blair didn't have a better one. 

Jim seemed to take his lack of response as approval, and left again, returning a minute later just long enough to drape Blair's opened sleeping bag around his shoulders. Blair stared into the setting sun, wishing Jim would stop his hurrying so that he could share it. 

As the sun neared the horizon, Jim called, "Okay, Sandburg, we're all set." 

All set sounded good. Blair rose to his feet and found the 20 or so yards to where Jim had pitched the tent were pretty easy. Five miles would be no problem - two hours tops. Then - things started to get fuzzy. "Easy, Chief," said Jim at this elbow as he lowered him to the ground. How'd Jim get there so fast? 

"I don't feel so good," he said. 

"I noticed," said Jim, amused. "Want a juice box?" 

"What am I, six?" asked Blair, but he took the box. Jim had already deployed the straw; not a good sign. 

"Sorry about the truck," he said, taking a sip. Apple, probably, but it tasted weird. 

"Not your fault," said Jim. 

The sun finally dipped below the horizon. Well, at least he'd gotten to share the sunset. As the sky lit up a vibrant pink-red, Jim emitted something between a sigh and a groan and stood again. "There's no wood for fire," he said. "Not enough to last the night, at least. Want to start in on some potato chips?" 

Blair shook his head. He just wanted to sleep, though with his hand throbbing that might be impossible. 

"Want more juice?" 

"No, thanks." 

"Then I might as well check your hand while we've got natural light." 

Not much light, but that shouldn't matter to Jim. Resigned, Blair held his right arm out, but hissed and pulled his hand back when Jim started to unwrap the bandage. 

"Come on, Chief," said Jim. "I won't hurt it." 

"You just did," said Blair, sounding petulant even to his own ears. 

"Okay," said Jim, rocking back on his heels. "But... well, okay." 

A hard shudder hit and Blair curled around his hand protectively again. "Just leave it alone. Please." 

Then Jim was behind him, pulling him back to his chest. "It's okay," said Jim. "Just relax." 

'This is really stupid,' Blair thought, but now he was warm, with Jim at his back and the sleeping bag covering them both. 

Jim crunched on a chip and the vibration felt like a woodpecker beating on his skull. The smell of grease was sickening. How could Jim stand that shit? 

"You okay?" Jim asked. 

"A little nauseous," Blair admitted; Jim shoved the bag of chips away. 

"Thanks," Blair murmured. 

"You know, you can tell me if I'm doing something that makes you uncomfortable," said Jim. 

Like, being held like this? Like eating those foul-smelling chips? 

Like being possessed by an evil alien parasite? 

"Oh, God, Jim," said Blair, the fear - horror - of the previous few days suddenly ambushing him. "How'd you stand it?" 

"I couldn't," said Jim, knowing immediately what he was babbling about. "I couldn't do a... a damn..." 

"God," said Blair, and he turned and wove his good hand between Jim and the rock Jim'd braced himself against, squeezing as tightly as he could. Not tight enough. 

"He's still in my mind," said Jim. "Ular. He's not controlling me, but things - things that happened to him... they feel like they happened to me. He didn't have an easy... oh, damn..." 

"Damn him," said Blair. 

"No, don't say that," said Jim. "It's all a part of me now." 

"Bullshit." 

"Blair..." 

"I'm sorry," said Blair reflexively. Causing Jim more pain was the last thing he wanted. 

He realized he was crying a little now; but it was okay, because he was pretty sure Jim was too. 

He must have slept then; images of Jim wrestling with the snake-thing filled his mind, except that Jim had become Jacob and that made the snake-thing - what? God? Some river spirit? He'd never really gotten that part of Genesis. 

Blair awoke with a jolt. His hand was on fire, only there were no flames. 

He moaned and rolled away from Jim. He had to do something with his hand. Cut it off or burn it off. Yes, there! The box that held the camping cookware visible in the moonlight. There'd be a knife. He started toward the box, but Jim was in his way. "Settle down," he commanded. "What's wrong?" 

"My..." and the apple juice started to surge back up his throat, disorienting him. He shifted, slipped, and his weight landed on his left hand. He screamed, collapsed, and was sick. 

He became dimly aware that he was back in Jim's lap, having his hair brushed back, being assured he was okay. "Cut it off!" he begged. 

"Let me see it," said Jim. Yes! Jim was going to go for it. Blair eagerly presented his left hand; the moon wasn't very bright, but Jim wouldn't need much light for what he had to do. 

Jim unwound the bandaging, clucked, then let Blair slide onto the ground. A moment later, he was back, his pocket knife glinting a little in the moonlight. Would that be big enough? But of course Jim was the medic. "Be sure to tie something around my arm so that I don't lose too much blood." 

"Don't worry about it," said Jim. He rubbed something against Blair's lips - a sock? - and said, "Bite this." 

Blair complied. Anything to make the pain stop. He'd miss his left hand, though. Maybe he could get a hook... 

Pain hit, as sharp as lightening, as large as the darkness about them. Blair let the sock fall from his mouth and screamed, a howl he couldn't contain. Looking toward the source of the agony, he saw Jim kneading his hand and wrist, expelling white glop from a fresh slit. Blair yanked his hand out of Jim's grasp. "Stop it! That's not what you were supposed to do!" 

"I'm getting the infection out," said Jim. "Hold still." 

So Blair relented and held still. In a minute, Jim released the hand. 

"I got a lot out," said Jim. "That should help a little." 

Blair hugged his hand and gasped for breath. Jim handed him a sock - the one he'd been supposed to chew on or its partner - and he wrapped it around his hand. 

"How's it feel?" Jim asked. 

"A little better," Blair admitted. "Thanks." 

"Good," said Jim, patting his shoulder. "Now I'm most worried about your fever. I haven't wanted to give you aspirin in case you need that operated on, but right now I think anything that helps you make it through the night would be good." 

How could he have a fever when he was so cold? Still, he swallowed the extra-strength Excedrin Jim presented, chasing them with some water, then let Jim rewrap his hand using strips of fabric presumably torn from some t-shirt. 

A few minutes later, they were in the tent. 

Then things got weird. Images, more vivid than any dream, came and left, leaving only the echo of memory. 

He knew that Jim pulling him out of the tent and into daylight was real. "Come on, Blair, walk," he was urged. "It's not too far." He tried, but his legs were rubber. Then, after a bit of this, he was lifted and then he was upside down. He'd panicked then; the little bit in his stomach clogged his throat, he was gagging, he couldn't breathe... 

And then Jim had carried him like a baby back to the campsite and set him down gently. "It's okay, Chief," he'd said, "We'll find another way." 

The next thing he was conscious of was fire - real fire. The truck! Jim turned as he approached on unsteady legs. "Stay back in case she explodes," he said. 

"I can't believe you're doing this," said Blair. Poor truck. Poor Jim. 

He swallowed another dose of Excedrin and allowed Jim to ply him with water and juice boxes as they watched the truck turn into melted metal and plastic and thick plumes of black smoke. Five miles to the road. Would anyone see it? Could anyone? Would anyone care? 

The sun was approaching its zenith when Jim finally said, "Someone's coming." 

The cavalry, it seemed, drove 4x4s out here. 

*** The End ***


End file.
